


staying up to hear the show

by bawdy



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, POV Original Character, god bless kink memes, i'm trash and i write trash things, matt gets off despite himself, prison rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4230672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bawdy/pseuds/bawdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt is found out to be Daredevil, disbarred, and sent to prison. Either the warden is an asshole or Fisk holds enough power to pull some strings (or both), and Matt ends up sharing a cell with him.</p>
<p>Nothing happens all day. In fact, everyone seems to be ignoring Matt, and he's very paranoid and confused. But then night falls. Everyone's in their cells for the night, lights go out, guards wander off.</p>
<p>And then Fisk... <i>demonstrates</i> to Matt how things are going to be from now on.</p>
<p>(Oh yeah. And you just <i>know</i> the neighbors are all staying up to hear the show.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	staying up to hear the show

**Author's Note:**

> Written for daredevilkink on dreamwidth.org. This hasn't been beta'd and I wrote it at like 4am so I apologize profusely for any awkward wording or grammar mistakes.

Jesus, it's practically pornographic.

Mac has been in and out of prison for two decades, he's been locked up with mobsters before, but Fisk - god, Fisk - he's something else. It took him a month, maybe three (Mac don't always tell the passing of time so good anymore, that'll drive you nuts in a place like this), before he had everyone marching to the beat of his drums. Everyone whispered that it was the money, but enough time in the business and Mac has seen almost everything that cash could get you. Fisk has their fervent devotion, their _fear_ , and that's worth a whole lot more. It's not even just the other prisoners, it's the guards, it's the families on the outside - he says _one word_ when news comes washing through the system like a wave that Daredevil's getting locked up, and everyone (even the guys he'd put in here, even _Mac_ ) steers clear. Nobody sneers at him about getting taken out by a blind man. Nobody questions his claim on retribution. _Nobody._

They don't let the lost little lawyer keep those glasses of his, they certainly didn't let him keep his stupid mask, and he thinks the bastard looks a helluva lot smaller in the harsh fluorescent lights of the prison lunchroom than he ever did in that back-alley of the Kitchen where he'd kicked 10 shades of shit out of Mac. He looks-- terrified. Probably doesn't even realize it, those creepy sightless eyes swiveling around the room uselessly, doing a full body twitch when anyone walks past his empty table to get to another one, no matter how crowded. He's confused but he's trying to look angry and in control, _tough._ He doesn't eat what they've given him, just pushes the food around on his plate until their time's up. No one steps in when he throws it all out, which is downright impressive, and just as much a testament to Fisk as any of the rest. Mac has seen boys get shivved for much less than that.

It's not until lockdown that the devil gets his questions answered, in the form of his new cellie, who had been suspiciously absent from the population's eye all day.

"Fisk." There's a lot of bald hate in that one word, but even one cell over, Mac doesn't miss the tremor in his voice. Is it terror or is it rage? Probably both.

"Matthew Murdock." Fisk sounds like he always has to Mac. Calm, collected, idly threatening. Some people say he was plain shy, in all those press spots he did on the outside. Mac doesn't buy it. He speaks quietly here, but there's a bigness to him that makes its way even into his voice, unavoidable and omnipresent. "I've been waiting for you. You see now what our city does to those who try to save it."

The devil gives a choking laugh. It's nowhere near convincing. He's breathing hard and fast, it's loud against the concrete walls and open hall. "You never-- you _never_ tried to save them."

"Mm. I did. But I won't, anymore. I've had... a revelation."

"You've had a dry spell," the devil sneers, probably grasping at straws. It's supposed to be pithy, Mac guesses, but it was a mistake. He can practically see the slow smile that must be spreading across Fisk's doughy face. He gives a low, dark laugh, at least.

"It's coming to an end tonight."

In the silence that follows, Mac holds his breath. He can hear his cellie doing the same. Nobody on the whole block is making a sound, everyone is waiting for the explosion that they knew had been coming since Fisk had leaned against the bars of his cage the day Daredevil transferred in, and said conversationally to the warden _I'd like a new cellmate._ There was a betting pool on whether he wanted to kill the devil or fuck him - Mac (having seen the dark shape of his mouth before, the exceptional roundness of his ass when he walked back out of that dim alley and left him in a puddle of his own blood) put a month's worth of saved up commissary money on the devil becoming a prison bitch before the getting was even good, before the rest of the jail got their first close look at him and tried to change their bets.

"No." The devil's voice is cracked, strained, trying to be defiant and nothing has even happened yet. He's being crushed by the implications alone. Mac gleefully plans out how many cigarettes he can charge for retelling all of the most gruesome details tomorrow, out on the yard: he hopes there's tears, but if there aren't, he can just embellish. He's got a good imagination and a way with words. "Not unless you go fuck yourself."

That's when the fighting starts. It's loud, and it lasts for long enough that he's half afraid the devil might get himself killed just trying to avoid what's coming to him, flushing Mac's winnings down the toilet on a technicality. They both shout, fabric tears, skin thuds dully into the floor and the walls, and the bunks give a mighty rusty creak as they're abused in the struggle. He thinks he hears the sink getting smashed off the wall at one point, but through all of it not a single guard comes running. He's almost sure that the time for nightly checks to start has passed, too. _Nice touch._

It ends with a whimper, not a bang. A long, drawn-out whimper. "No. You can't--"

"I can do anything, if you hadn't noticed." Fisk barely even sounds winded. Or maybe he's just good at hiding it. He'd been making plenty of noises during the scuffle, and Mac is no stranger to just how hard the devil can hit. "The only reason you haven't been bent over in the showers yet is because I keep this whole place at bay."

"I'm not afraid of--"

"And the second I withdraw my protection, you'll be eaten alive." Fisk's voice is dry, matter-of-fact. Mac likes to imagine he's got the devil pushed up against a wall, wrists pinned above his head with one huge hand, thigh between his legs so he knows (so he can _feel_ ) exactly what's about to happen to him. He imagines those blank eyes zigzagging, trying to look for an escape without seeing. He imagines bruises just beginning to mottle beneath his skin, and that red mouth, stained darker with blood, opening in protest before he's cut off again. "Yes, yes. I recall. You're stubborn to the point of being borderline suicidal, it's not what I'd call one of your more charming traits. Don't be tiresome, Matthew, you know you don't stand a chance against every man in this prison."

There's another silence, and after the din of the fight, it's practically deafening. Finally, the devil finds his voice. "Why stop them? What's in it for you?" He sounds so resigned that it takes Mac's breath away. Worn out, and defeated, barely managing to growl. Maybe Fisk's got him on the floor, instead, face against the cement all that weight bearing down on top of him, making it hard to breathe, proving definitively that he's got no way to escape. Maybe the hard curve of Fisk's dick is pressed up against the swell of his ass, maybe Fisk has his dark hair between those meaty fingers, twisting it enough to be painful without tearing any out. _That's it, yeah,_ pulling his head back and baring his neck until his adam's apple bobs up and down, visible beneath the rasp of stubble. Mac palms himself through his jumpsuit, and imagines.

"I respect you," he answers, ponderously. Daredevil croaks out a disbelieving _God,_ and Fisk makes his own rumbling noise to quiet him. "Your skill, your... devotion, misguided as it is. Useless and short-sighted as it is. But you took me away from Vanessa." There's a rusty squeak, and Mac stills, hand pressed down hard against his dick, not daring to move for fear of missing a word of it. Are they on the bed, then? Is the devil too weak to move, arms twisted purposefully in the sheets and held out behind him so he's defenseless? "And I won't go back to her dirtied." There'd been word of how hot she'd been, the Vanessa woman, when she hung off Fisk's arm on the news. (Gossip about Fisk had been big for awhile, before he put a forceful stop to it when he really came into his own power.) The devil's hardly a replacement to scoff at, though. Especially considering the limited selection available here.

_Dirtied._ Mac wants to scoff, laugh at the implication that he's too good for them when he's the scariest monster here, but his breath is trapped in his throat. He's a little afraid Fisk will hear it.

"It's your choice, Matthew." He sounds soothing. _Generous._ The tone of the encounter has shifted somewhere in that little pause, and Mac pictures him running his hands down the devil's sides, up under his clothes while he shakes, down and around to cup his ass. Just holding it, without squeezing: the picture of restraint. "Out there or in here. Decide." Mac half-hopes for a decline even though it'll leave him broke and frustrated tonight. He knows that with a deal like Fisk is offering to the devil, no one else in the entire place is going to get to take a crack. No one's going to get to tear him apart like he deserves, fuck him until he begs and cries and admits how sorry he is for putting them all in here. Fisk likes his privacy far too much, so he's never going to spread Daredevil out in the communal shower, beat him until his blood runs down the drains, make him choke on the cocks of every lucky bastard present until his body un-learns how to gag. The Kingpin's never going to _share_ , so all he'll ever have are these little audio performances.

Damn.

He's so caught up in his disappointment that he doesn't hear when things start up again, but this time there's no shouting, no crashing, just the rustle of clothes, the smack of lips and the wounded little noises the devil keeps making, probably without meaning to. Like can't even believe this is happening to him. He probably can't, Mac muses: everyone's first time is a gaping, terrifying disappointment, everyone prays for intervention and breaks a little when they figure out it's not going to come. Some get used to it, some... don't.

There's a slurping noise. Maybe Fisk is sucking on his own fingers, but he likes to think he's making the lawyer do it for him, putting that mouth to some good use. Mac jerks back into motion, working his hand down into his clothes and seizing his half-hard cock, licking his lips and straining to hear. Fisk should be taking the devil from behind, trapping his knees on the floor and letting his chest rest on the bed, palm sliding under his chin to hold it up while his middle and ring fingers push past those pretty lips and into his mouth, press down against his tongue until saliva pools there. Move them back and forth a few times in a parody of fucking, letting drool drip down his chin. The devil won't bite, no: he's too afraid of that grip turning hard, of Fisk curling his fist and cracking his jaw out of place, maybe twisting his head so sharply that his neck snaps like in the movies. He's probably resigned himself to being compliant, but Mac hopes those eyes are still going nuts, wide and unseeing, tears gathering in the corners of them - yeah, tears, good. Yard stories are always better with a few tears, a bit of begging. All the boys he ever put in here will enjoy the idea that he broke down and wept when he realized his new place in the world.

He jerks a few times, uselessly: Mac's mind supplies that much when he hears the sharp movements and grunts, the devil is trying to get away without allowing himself to move. They're definitely on the bunk, at least partially, Mac can make out the sound of rusted springs now, and it makes his mental image more solid. The next rustle of cloth is more final than the others had been, and Mac can hear the devil's breathing pick up into wet gasps - one after the other, after the other, after the other. When he hears a forceful "uh!" like all the air has been punched out of him, Mac can almost see the devil bucking as a spit-wet finger prods at his asshole. Undignified, uncontrolled. He probably bites down on the sheets just to keep himself from yelling his throat raw in fear.

"Relax, Matthew. I assure you, the only one you're making this more difficult for is yourself." Fisk's voice is darkly amused, but not crass or, even entirely unkind. Mac has to hand it to him, the man clearly knows how to put on a show. Maybe he didn't bribe anybody, maybe he just whispered to them in the dark until they were willing to do every little thing he asked. "That's better. _This_ doesn't have to be your punishment."

There's more silence, broken only by the sharp staccato of labored breathing, and the occasional noise that the devil is trying to keep to himself. It goes on that way for what feels like forever, and just when Mac's wrist is starting to tire, mind wandering inward from the lack of new, satisfying input, Fisk's voice breaks the silence. "Spit."

Oh. Oh, yes. The main event. Mac sits up, closing his eyes and leaning his head so he can press his ear against the bars nearest the wall, the one his shares with Fisk's cell. He can hear his cellie unzip, and he doesn't know how he kept it in his pants up until now. The pause is tangible, but the devil does just as he's told, and Mac can nearly feel the warm glob of saliva on his palm when the sound of it bounces off the walls and spills out into the hall. He does it twice more without prompting, and guy as big as Fisk, Mac figures that's probably wise.

Then, suddenly and out of the blue, Daredevil speaks again. "No, no-" Mac thought they were past this part, but there's a real panic settling into that raspy voice. It's strange, because the desperation and pleading usually comes _before_ the fingers. At least, when there even are any. "God, it's too-- that's too big, _no,_ " yes. He'd forgotten for a moment that the devil is blind (or at least didn't consider what that could mean.) Poor bastard has had no idea what he's really in for until now, maybe he's been expecting something more average. Alright, scratch that, this is better than _practically pornographic._ So much better. Nobody's touching Mac's dick but himself, and he's still going to need a cigarette when it's all done. "You can't, Fisk, _Fisk!_ "

Apparently he can. Fisk shushes him, but the timbre of the devil's wordless noises don't taper away, they build. He sounds like he's being gutted, and it's good, it's so good to hear. It's going to stay with him long after he leaves, long after he finds some woman to bend over for a handful of cash on the outside, like he's been fantasizing about for the months since Daredevil got him locked up. Those, though, they are the noises that dreams are made of, and Mac fists his cock violently, trying to recreate the crushing tightness that Fisk must be feeling. "You'll survive," Fisk grunts, but his quiet voice gives away the smugness that must be painted all over his face. Even he's starting to get a little breathy with effort, now. "I said _relax._ "

When they eventually go still again, Mac pictures Fisk bottomed out against the bruising roundness of the devil's ass. He can't imagine why Fisk is taking it so easy on him, prepping him, giving him some time to adjust, but Mac never was very good at the long game. Maybe he wants to save completely breaking the devil for later, maybe he's got plans. And hey, if he can find a way to bring those noises back for an encore someday, Mac is all for it.

They start moving, and in that moment Mac would trade any hope of ever getting his freedom back for the ability to see through walls. The devil isn't silent, but he's doing better about keeping it down, which is awfully disappointing. Disappointing, that is, until a few minutes into the act itself, something... shifts. The devil managed a modicum of control over himself for a little while, but then began building steadily back up, his voice raw and cresting up on the opposite side of the spectrum. He's _moaning_ , Mac realizes: panting and breathless in one go, but moaning around all that. When he muffles himself into what must be a fist, it only takes Fisk a few slow, audible strokes to yank the offending arm back and open him up to Mac's ears again. He already knows no one in the yard is going to believe him, but he can hear it for himself, the raw desperation and low self-loathing packed like bricks into the burbled sounds tumbling through the cell bars. Mac can't tell which sounds he likes better, the devil in pain or in the sort of pleasure he never wanted to feel.

He's still mulling it over when the devil makes a pronounced choking noise, cutting off mid-keen. Mac thinks Fisk must have closed one of those huge hands around his throat and _squeezed_ \-- the sound of fabric rustling gets so frantic that Mac can only imagine the devil's hands are scrabbling in the sheets, trying to find purchase, trying to make sense of everything and then the entire cell goes still and there's a distinct, muffled shout fluttering out beneath all that pressure. Did he just...

"Already?" Fisk sounds so pleased, and why not? He came. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the devil _came_ with a mammoth cock in his ass and a hand on his throat and the man he put in prison growling into his ear, "Impatient boy. I'm not done."

A few, pounding heartbeats follow, and then the rhythmic slapping and sliding resumes over the sound of a dry, overstimulated sob, and in two, three more borderline brutal jerks Mac comes so hard into the fabric of his pants that he almost bites off his own tongue.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Day Two (Of The Rest Of Your Life)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4238619) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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